Role

Chapter 7

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this. But now that you're at my
mercy...I..."

The dark-elf smirked. "You cannot. How pathetically weak."

Iltanthal had, at long last, tracked the dark-elf necromancer who had brutalized
his sister so long ago. Aging and decrepit, the foul magi's magics had
faded, no matter his earlier successes. Now he was weak, and completely
helpless against the young Squire.

"Why a gnome? Why? Why did a gnome help you?"

The dark-elf's laughter made him cough, spitting up blood. "A gnome."
He smirked again, wiping blood from his lips and wincing. "You actually
fell for the Illithid's mind-games."

A mindflayer! The revelation hit Iltanthal like Krikar with the Wand of Orcus.

A hot sensation ran up his spine and flushed his face. He had been
so righteously angry with gnomes, with the Council...and it was all
a lie. He felt an idiot. He released his dagger from the throat of
the dark-elf and put his hands to his head, groaning. "I'm such a fool..."

Seeing his chance to escape, the dark-elf cast a sleep incantation at the
young elf. His magic was as weak as he, however, and Iltanthal reacted
without thinking. Before he could even stop himself, a dagger had found
its way into his hand and plunged deep into the heart of the drow. Mithril.

A fitting end to a monster, he thought, dimly, as he considered his next steps.